The Only Woman He Ever Loved
by Clorinda
Summary: A funny story about a man and his beloved motorcycle. One shot.


**The Only Woman He Ever Loved**

**By** Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**: General/Humour

**Summary**: A funny story about a man and his beloved motorcycle. One-shot.

* * *

Sirius had always liked those strange, typically Muggle things like TV sets, electricity, refrigerators and gel-ink pens. He even had a microwave of his own at his flat, but then again, it never could _do_ anything because Sirius had lost its manual.

He used to literally haunt the Potters at Godric's Hollow, and Lily good-naturedly complained aloud when he sat to dinner with them. When the Potters had been looking for a house after Sirius's flat became too small for three adults, Sirius was the one who insisted on keeping the Muggle junk the previous owners had left behind.

But it was the motorcycle that fascinated him.

There was never any doubt that Sirius was rich, even after he was burnt off his family tree. He used the money to sit through a junkyard auction in the fifth row of rusty steel chairs, shouting rather inordinate bids for utter rubbish, just when the auctioneer was describing the value of the various items.

It could be fairly said that he fell in love with the motorbike when he saw it.

James had been meaning to buy a car for ages, perhaps something simple and useful, inexpensive ... like a Rolls Royce, maybe. Sirius had been wanting to joyride ever since he'd heard the first mentioning of it, and here was his big chance to have his _dream_ come alive.

He would not let such a wondrous opportunity pass away unnoticed.

Bolting upright in his chair, he yelled out his bid in Galleons, even before the good man could even _introduce_ the motorcycle. He stared outright at Sirius, demanding an explanation, and Sirius amended himself by repeating in the more understandable currency of pounds and shillings.

That afternoon, he came out of the auction house with a great big gloating grin plastered to his face.

It had been Remus Lupin's birthday that Saturday, and the Marauders were having a special celebration at Hogsmeade village— although he was twenty-four. It was a perfect opportunity to try out the bike, and he rode it all the way to the party.

There were some minor problems with the mechanism of the engine, and he had to stop more than once to fix that queer rattling. He also had to drop by the petrol pump to gather up on fuel.

At last, he reached Hogsmeade at nine-thirty at night, having driven through the countryside for what had felt like days. Obviously, he was late and had forgotten to pick up Remus's present from the flat. Also, by the time he arrived, the cake had been devoured (save a few reserved pieces), champagne uncorked and transformed into an ungodly mess, and Peter Pettigrew as drunk as a lord.

Now, it has to be understood that Remus Lupin had never been one to swear, but he jumped to his feet and profaned horribly when Sirius tried to hug him with black oily hands.

The guests soon dispersed, and Peter with them. There was only Remus, Sirius, and Lily and James Potter left. They were all overly tired, and wisely opted to retire since an awful hangover awaited them the next morning.

Sirius was obliged to hitch a ride home with someone, because he grew decidedly uncomfortable when "Side-along Apparation" and "precious motorcycles" were clubbed together into one sentence.

And speaking of the motorcycle, it was unusable since they had recently discovered a large leak in the gas tank.

* * *

Sirius was so absorbed with his brand new second-hand motorcycle that even "Annoy Lily Potter" fell sharply on his list of priorities. James came over one day to find him downstairs in the garage, wearing coveralls and fiddling with a spread-out assortment of cogs and nooks and dissected machinery.

That awful-looking bike was undergoing surgery.

James had always thought his best friend was a tad touched in the head to ever like something as strange that motorcycle. He thought Muggles were no less since they _invented_ the great stupid thing in the first place.

This particular one shined like a silver penny in the light, but if it were a person, it would have definitely been a Mary Lennox before she came to Misselthwaite: small, thin and scraggly. It was old, but it had been rubbed over for the auction: a tin of cheap polish wasted.

At the first sight of it, everyone had laughed. Lily had been more tactful, murmuring behind the speculative fingers that covered her mouth,

"You know, Sirius, that bike looks more _third_-hand, than second."

Surprisingly enough, he had taken in all their jibes without unleashing his horrendous temper even once, and finally, he finished it in cliché: "I'll show you just how dumb this motorcycle is."

"I don't doubt it," cracked Remus, and slapped palms with James.

Nobody saw him for six days after that, and Peter Pettigrew wondered if they had really hurt his feelings that time. Lily said he was too much of a fathead for that, and James considered both sides of the argument in silence.

* * *

At last, they all got worried because Sirius wouldn't pick up the telephone at his flat, and all owls came flying back, hooting dully, their letters still with them. Finally, Remus Lupin worked up enough courage to go visit Sirius— something, which he had refused to do for nine years.

He would actually put up a violent fight and subside into hysterical shudders at the thought of visiting frankly _an_yplace that was _Sirius's_ habitat.

The elevator would not work, and Remus had to ascend several flights of stairs to reach Flat no. 13. The building was entirely tenanted by Muggles, and somebody was staring discreetly through the crack of a door at Remus for the whole ten minutes he spent pressing somebody else's doorbell.

Finally somebody opened the door.

The person was in a long dressing-robe and carpet slippers, and had a fierce scowl, on a face surrounded by very red whiskers lathered in shaving foam. To put it very simply, he did _not_ look pleased.

"Whaddaya want?" growled the Dutchman, taking a step forward over the threshold, and Remus did the only polite and decent thing to do in a situation like that: he ran away as fast as he could.

* * *

"Sirius changed houses," he said later in the Potters' drawing room a half-hour later, when he had sufficiently recovered his breath. "I don't know why, but he just did."

James, perched on the rest of Lily's armchair, asked, "Was the motorcycle still there in the garage?" At the murderous look he was given, he said, "So, it wasn't, huh?"

Remus shot him a glare. His eyes flashed white hot metal knives.

"I do _not_ bloody _care_."

"Fair enough ... Is that a no?"

* * *

The Mystery of the Disappearing Black found a surprising lead on Thursday morning, when James, Lily, Remus and Peter all found a typewritten leaflet addressed personally to each of them, in the morning mail.

Peter, whose owl dropped the pamphlet into his breakfast bowl of milk and fruited Cornflakes, nearly ate it by mistake.

It was an anonymous invitation to come and watch a play in a London theatre. The playwright was a dead Irishman called John Millington Synge. There was a ticket enclosed in each of the envelopes, and since it was all evidently without cost, they decided to go and see it.

The four of them found each other at the doorway of the hall, on the front steps of the theater. Everyone was dressed rather simply as befitted a casual, if not strange jaunt, except for poor Peter who was expecting some marvelous event, or a party at any rate, and turned up in a tuxedo.

Lily laughed rather unkindly and remarked how Peter would probably end up finding La Belle Dame Sans Merci, who left men, "alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing."

The play itself was rather awful. It was based on an incident where Synge actually witnessed the mourning of a dead sailor. Perhaps in its story, "Riders to the Sea" was creditable, but to see it _enacted_ ... and the horror was even doubled in terms of the dialogue, which was a direct and ungrammatical translation from Irish.

There was no doubt that the invitations were issued by, or related to, Sirius Black, but _why_ he would go into all this mystery was anybody's guess. They sat through the play on the sole hope that Sirius was in it, or had some hand in it,

But the usher was handing out the program pamphlets, and neatly printed on each of those, were the names of the acting and backstage cast. There was no mentioning of Sirius anywhere— or even an anagram of his name.

Disappointed, they filed out through the exit by the stage.

"What do we do now?" asked James, his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. They were in the empty parking lot, and leaning against Peter's new jet-black sedan. His salary was too measly to get him such a beauty, and when asked, Peter would only wink evilly and say he had a fairy godfather who kept his coffers full.

An explosively loud noise filled the air, filling their ears. It was like the revving of a gigantic engine.

It was a black, three-quarter-moon night, and a large shadow pooled around the four of them. The parking lot was deserted, and strong magic hung in the air. Darkness descended around them, and suddenly it was like the stars and moon had been turned off in the sky.

As light as a floating sheet of paper, something touched the ground on all fours. The beast was monstrous in size, and titanic. Sleek silver armour glinted menacingly, and the reflected colour of the night was splashed all over it.

Then, something, or rather some_one_ in dark leather, slid off the creature's back. He had hair that swept around his head like a black halo, and there was a grin on his handsome, but pale face.

It was Sirius.

"_You_!" the three men yelled in furious chorus, while Lily lifted a hand in polite greeting. "Err, hello, Sirius. You look, erm ... well."

If it was even possible, that infernal grin actually expanded. "Wotcher, people. I'd like you to meet my new girlfriend."

"_Girlfriend_?"

Their eyes narrowed in cold suspicion; but then Sirius moved aside for them to catch a better look. Remus was open-jawed, Peter paralyzed, Lily fuming— and James roaring with uncontrollable laughter.

"Meet _Anna Catalina_," declared marauder Monsieur Padfoot proudly, saying it like _William Shakespeare_.

It was that horrible motorcycle— and Sirius had turned its dimensions like that of a tree. A hybrid tree with a banyan's diameter and a redwood's height. Peter Pettigrew had quite fainted.

—** End —**


End file.
